(It’s late afternoon. The air smells of espresso and old vinyl. Joe Jukic, from Little Croatia, sits across from his old friend Luis Morgado from Little Portugal. The two sip dark coffee, voices low but firm.)
Joe Jukic: You remember that old tower, eh Luis? The one with all that asbestos? My cousin swore the workers were coughing up dust for years. Cancer, lung issues, you name it. Then one morning—poof—it’s gone.
Luis Morgado: (leans back, shaking his head) Yeah, Joe. I’ve been saying it since day one—Bush lied. They sold the war like a used car. That wasn’t just terrorism, that was a jubilee for the rich. They wiped the slate clean on bad investments, insurance payouts, reconstruction contracts—boom. Trillions changed hands overnight.
Joe: I know. Everyone said it was about oil, but maybe it was also about liability. That asbestos cleanup was gonna cost billions. Easier to start a war than to pay the rent on justice.
Luis: Exactly. They turned tragedy into profit. The towers fell, and so did the truth. They called it freedom, but it was just a fire sale for the global elite.
Joe: (nodding) And twenty years later, we’re still paying the interest. Still breathing in their dust.
Luis: You and me, Joe—we come from working-class families. We know what it’s like to pay the bill for someone else’s party.
Joe: Yeah. But maybe it’s time for a new jubilee—the real kind. The kind that forgives the poor, not rewards the rich.
(They clink their coffee cups together—East Van style. The city hums outside, but in this small corner of Little Croatia and Little Portugal, two old friends share the truth that never made the evening news.)
Joe stood on the set of Nelly’s newest music video — a surreal fusion of glam rock, sci-fi history, and divine rebellion. In front of him, lights flared like miniature suns, and smoke coiled across the stage like incense rising from a cathedral altar.
“Behold,” Joe declared, half-in awe, half-in jest, “The Empress of MTV Entertainment!”
Nelly smiled from her golden throne, draped in a shimmering jacket that looked stolen from an ‘80s dream. Around her, the set was designed like a launch pad — a tribute to Def Leppard’s “Rocket,” reborn for the modern era. On the backdrop, an image of Wernher von Braun appeared — the German rocket engineer turned NASA visionary — his face caught between science and sin.
“You really used your old altar boy for inspiration?” Nelly teased, adjusting her mic.
Joe grinned. “You were the muse long before MTV knew your name. Von Braun just gave the metaphor — a rocket built from guilt and grace.”
The music started — pounding drums, roaring guitars, an echo of Hysteria with a cosmic twist. Nelly sang about humanity’s urge to escape Earth, to chase glory in the stars even as the soul burns on the launch pad.
A choir of holographic altar boys appeared behind her, chanting ‘Lift off, lift off, lift off’ — as Joe, the director, whispered:
“It’s not just a song, it’s a confession. You’re the Empress, and the rocket is redemption.”
The final shot was Nelly floating weightless, haloed in starlight, as von Braun’s ghost saluted her ascent — and MTV’s logo flickered like a relic from another age.
In the twilight of the twenty-first century, the parallel between ancient Rome and modern America has become impossible to ignore. Both empires rose upon ideals of freedom and ingenuity, yet both masked their decay beneath the dazzling veneer of spectacle. Bread and circuses once sustained the Roman populace; today, the American citizen dines on the poisoned bread of industrial agriculture while being hypnotized by an endless stream of entertainment. The thesis of this essay is simple: America is the new Rome — a civilization of infinite circuses, but whose bread is both toxic and dwindling.
The Circus Without End
In ancient Rome, the gladiatorial games and chariot races served a political purpose — to pacify the masses, to keep them distracted from the growing corruption of the Senate and the decline of civic virtue. America’s version is more sophisticated, more digital, and more invasive. The screens have replaced the arenas. The celebrity has replaced the gladiator. The algorithm has replaced the emperor’s thumb.
In every home, a glowing device offers endless distraction — reality shows, sports, social media wars, and political theater. The people cheer, laugh, rage, and despair, but they rarely act. Their passions are consumed by virtual conflicts while real injustice multiplies in the world beyond the screen. The old Roman mob filled the Colosseum; the new American mob fills comment sections and protest hashtags, believing that digital indignation is revolution.
As in Rome, the ruling class has learned that amusement is the cheapest form of control. What better way to maintain empire than by ensuring the masses are entertained from birth to death — their souls tranquilized by the opiate of the image?
The Poisoned Bread
But while the circuses have multiplied, the bread — both literal and symbolic — has turned to poison. In Rome, the grain came from conquered provinces; in America, it comes from vast monocultures sprayed with weed killers that seep into soil, water, and blood. Glyphosate, the invisible conqueror, has become the empire’s silent god — omnipresent, profitable, and destructive.
The bread that once symbolized sustenance now embodies sickness. Chronic illness, infertility, and malnutrition rise even as abundance appears to reign. The American supermarket resembles a temple — endless aisles of offerings, each more processed than the last. Yet beneath the fluorescent light lies hunger: a spiritual, metabolic, and ecological hunger that no amount of calories can fill.
As Rome exhausted its provinces, so too does America exhaust its soil. The breadbasket is shrinking, the rivers are drying, and the earth groans under the weight of extraction. When Rome fell, it was not from a single battle but from slow internal starvation — moral, political, and agricultural. The same slow famine now spreads across the modern empire.
The Illusion of Plenty
The paradox of empire is that it always appears strongest at the moment of its collapse. The Romans built their grandest monuments as the barbarians approached the gates; America builds its tallest skyscrapers as its citizens lose faith in tomorrow. The economy grows, yet real life contracts. The GDP climbs, but the topsoil erodes. The illusion of infinite growth conceals the reality of finite survival.
The modern empire measures its greatness in data and dollars, not in wisdom or virtue. The Romans worshiped Mars, the god of war; America worships the market, the god of more. But the gods demand sacrifice. In the pursuit of endless profit, America sacrifices its air, its water, its health, and its children’s future.
The Coming Reckoning
History does not repeat, but it rhymes. The collapse of Rome was not an apocalypse but a transformation — the old world giving birth to the new. The same fate awaits America. From the ruins of poisoned bread and empty circuses may rise a civilization that remembers what nourishment truly means: clean soil, real community, and the sacredness of food.
When the circuses finally lose their power to distract, and the poisoned bread ceases to sustain, the American people will face the same question that haunted late Rome: What is the meaning of civilization without virtue?
Until that day, the empire will feast on its illusions. The lights will shine, the screens will glow, the crowds will cheer — as the bread runs out.
